Five Minutes
by NerdAngel
Summary: A one shot that was inspired by an art piece. No spoilers, takes place during a zombie apocalypse. WARNING!: Major character death.


**A/n: I've actually been working on writing a Sherlock zombie apocalypse story for a few months now. I know the idea sounds crazy or maybe even silly and I know others have written one, but I'm actually really excited to see where it goes. On a completely separate note, I was looking at some incredible and talented fan art a few nights ago and happened to stumble across a beautiful and heartbreaking artwork created by inklou titled "Five Minutes" that inspired me to write this one shot. Ironically enough, it happens to be a zombie apocalypse art piece though my story in progress is going a different direction than this one did.**

 **WARNING!: Major character death.**

 **No spoilers for any season.**

 **No slash.**

 **Not my characters, just borrowing them.**

Five Minutes

"Go John, I'm right behind you. Go!"

John obeyed and continued to beat his feet against the pavement, not chancing a look back or on either side of him as he did so. He could hear his friend's own shoes pounding behind him for awhile until they stopped altogether. The doctor pushed himself to continue on, despite the urge to turn around and check on his companion. Finally when he felt like he couldn't run anymore without his legs giving out on him, he slowed to a halt. With baited breath, he bent down with his hands on his knees trying to regulate himself. When his panting was under control again, he straightened up and turned to look behind him. The streets were littered with bodies and forgotten items of the deceased. The foul stench of the rotting corpses added to the usual unpleasant stench that often times inhabited the city. Every time he took a breath he inhaled the putride air that left a horrific taste in his mouth. However this hadn't been his first encounter with such a scene. Different scenario most certainly, but the stench, sight, and taste of death all around him was only too familiar to John Watson. In fact the only thing that caused his heart rate to increase once more and a tight feeling to worm its way to his chest wasn't the gruesome sight, but rather the lack of something, someone, in his sight.

"Sherlock?" He called out as he spun around in every which direction. Silence and stillness was his only response. His heart was beating in his throat now and his breathing grew heavy. He knew he should have looked back. "SHERLOCK?!"

"I don't think it's wise to shout in our current situation." A deep calm familiar voice caught his ear and he quickly turned to see Sherlock standing nearby. John let out a sigh and rapidly pulled his best friend into an embrace that conveyed everything he was feeling. The consulting detective cringed at the force being pressed onto him but placed his left arm around the man to reciprocate the gesture anyways. John pulled away with a smile on his face which only slightly faultered.

"Where were you? I thought you said you were right behind...Sherlock?" The doctor's grin vanished completely as he got a chance to really get a good look at his friend. It was only then that he noticed that Sherlock looked a bit piqued and was standing a little askewed with his right hand pressed to his right side as though he was applying pressure to it. His coat that had become one of his iconic symbols, was missing from him altogether which when John had last seen him he'd been wearing it. His breathing was labored and the doctor didn't think it had anything to do with the speed of which he had gotten to him. "Oh my God." Immediately his medical and comrade senses kicked in and he moved his hands to gently coax Sherlock's away so that he could get a better look at the wound. His friend only pressed harder. "Sherlock, let me look at it," he demanded sternly.

"It's...nothing," he breathed.

"If it's nothing then let me see."

"John-"

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you." The consulting detective glared at him then removed his bloody hands and revealed a large angry red gash just under his ribs. John frowned at the wound as he inspected it. Though it could prove problematic down the road, it wasn't as bad as he had feared it to be. It looked deep, but thankfully not too deep to be fatal at the moment. Blood was seeping from it which meant he was in danger of passing out from blood loss if it wasn't properly bandaged in a timely fashion, but they should have some time still before that happened.

"See? I told you...it's nothing," he replied.

"You'll live," John confirmed then added, "what happened?"

"I had a...a bit of a tiff with...one of them," he explained then waved a dismissive hand at the doctor while placing the other back over the crimson wound. "I'm fine..."

"You always were one for the dramatics," he teased his friend lightheartedly. "I thought you'd been bitten the way you were holding yourself."

"You know my methods John," Sherlock turned his lips upward as he looked at John through droopy lids. His bright eyes were eerily weighed down with what the doctor could only assume was exhaustion. Between running for their lives for hours if not longer and blood loss it made sense to him that he would be. In fact he probably didn't look any better himself if he could see his own reflection. Sherlock's eyes rolled in the back of his head and his legs gave out beneath him causing him to crumble to the ground. John managed to catch him just before he hit the street and gently lowered him so that he was sitting slumped over against the closest building. The detective leaned his head back against the cool wall still breathing heavily than normal.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm...fine just...just tired." The doctor nodded and brought his eyes up to look around him. He hadn't noticed it before but now he knew exactly where they were and he couldn't help but let a sound of relief escape from his lips.

"St. Bart's is right there. I know you're tired and in pain, but you should be good enough to be able to make it there so that I can properly dress your wound."

Sherlock slowly rotated his head over to peer at the building and then shook it.

"I...I can't."

"Yes, you can. You can Sherlock and you will," his friend insisted. "I'm not leaving you alone, not in this mess. Not like this."

"You have to," his voice was low and he slurred almost as though he were having trouble staying awake.

"No. I'll drag you if I have to."

The consulting detective smiled at his best friend, "now who's being dramatic?"

"Your injury isn't that bad you can make it just fine. Now, I know it's hard, but stop being a drama queen and let's go."

Sherlock's eyes softened and he repeated, "I can't...John."

With a defeated sigh, John looked over at the hospital and back at his friend. "Fine. I'll go. But you better be here and awake when I get back. I'll only be a few minutes."

"I think I can handle...a few minutes unsupervised," he smirked. The lack of the usual life behind his eyes and the struggled attempt at morphing his face into the simplest expression caused the doctor to once again get the feeling of unease that had taken him earlier. Something was wrong, that injury shouldn't be causing him to react like he was even if he could be dramatic. It was only a scratch. Albeit a slightly deep scratch but not bad enough to warrant his friend's reaction.

As he made his way to the place that contained so many memories, good, bad, and in between, the heavily clouded dark sky that had been threatening them for days now finally opened up and rained down on him. It seemed like it had been night for an eternity now, though he supposed the time of day didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was the time he had to get his supplies and get back to his friend who was bleeding and alone in the streets.

It wasn't as easy as John had thought it would be. Doors were locked and barricaded, blood smears and scattered glass was laying all over the floor, and everywhere there were more bodies of either victims of the virus or victims of the victims'. He finally managed to make it into the medical center where he quickly began to open cabinets and dig through messes that had been created by someone who had been searching for something themselves. John acquired a spool of gauze, bandages, a small bottle of disinfectant, and a roll of medical tape, stuffed it in his pockets, and dashed back through the door and out into the hall towards the hospital entrance and exit.

He was barely out of the front door when he came to a sudden stop, throwing his hands out to catch himself should he fall from the abrupt gesture. He felt his heart sink to his stomach as he reached back and pulled out his gun. Tears welled in his eyes as he aimed the pistol with a trembling hand at the pale bloody thing standing a few feet before him, with more of them heading in his direction. Because that's what he needed to tell himself and that's what he needed it to be, a thing. It's form was hunched and the eyes staring at him were vacant and lifeless, two things their owner had never been nor they themselves. It all made sense now and John cursed himself for not having figured it out sooner. Too distracted by the wound his friend had brought to his attention in his side rather than the one he had kept hidden. How could he have been so stupid? Sherlock didn't come with him not because he was exhausted, but as a means to protect him. The detective had known it was only a matter of time before he was gone and a grotesque and dangerous threat took his place.

John thought back on the man's last words as tears trickled down his cheeks.

 _"I think I can handle a few minutes unsupervised."_

"I was only away for five minutes, Sherlock," he replied in a small voice. His watery gaze stayed fixed on the shell of what was once his best friend. "Five bloody minutes."

 _~The End~_

 **A/n: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn't, I recommend checking out inklou's art piece that inspired this.**


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